On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’ ‘One cannot help but do so. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. Her aunt went off at a tangent. It was easy to discover that he was a knave, but equally easy to perceive that he was a pleasant fellow; a combination of qualities by no means of rare occurrence.
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